Welcome to Room 6, a rockin' summer camp

BYLINE: Deborah J. Wolfinsohn AUSTIN AMERICAN-STATESMAN
DATE: July 2, 1996
PUBLICATION: Austin American-Statesman
EDITION: FINAL
SECTION: Lifestyle
PAGE: E1

"I can't control my fingers, I can't control my toes, oh woah oh woah oh woah!"

Inside Room 6 at the Austin Rehearsal Complex, a small, air-conditioned space with a couch, black velvet curtain and Lone Star beer light, six kids are turning out a perfect - if not more spirited than the original - version of the Ramones' "Sedated."

All traces of whoever rehearsed late into the previous night are gone, replaced with backpacks decorated with logos of favorite bands in white-out, empty candy wrappers and CD carriers graffitied with paint pens. The bands they love, the bands that seem to speak to them (Tilt, Pennywise, Direction), are unknown to most of the over-20 set.

Jillian McElyea, 14, tall and confident in a Ramones T-shirt that hangs to her knees and jeans so wide they obscure her Doc Martens, commands the middle of the room as she strums her guitar. It's a black Peavey, a true rock'n'roll instrument, enrusted with stickers. Not other bands' stickers, but glittery, glow-in-the-dark stickers, the kind kids collect and trade. McElyea has been playing for only eight months, but she can pretty much figure out any song by ear.

McElyea is one of about 40 kids who are enrolled in the June session of the Natural Ear Music Camp, where for three weeks and $395 kids ages 8 through 17 learn firsthand what it's like to play in a band. (The July camp runs July 8 to 26). Every day from 10 to 2, the rehearsal complex is turned into a soundproofed rec room where the kids can be as loud as they want, have pizza and Doritos for lunch, and wail away to their favorite songs without anyone telling them to turn it down.

Next to McElyea stands 14-year-old Todd Triplett, leaning against the wal, chin-length, dyed-black hair hanging in his downcast eyes, fuzzy distorted chords blasting from his amp. He is the essence of cool introspection.

When McElyea and Triplett sing together on a Nirvana song, leaning into the mikes, guitars slung low, an observer realizes the gap between female and male musicians has officially closed.

On drums, 12-year-old Cully Symington, with braces on his teeth and a ball cap embroidered with the name of his favorite band (No Use Use For a Name), hits hard and fast, causing doubletakes at this small-of-stature, big-of-sound kid behind the set.

Completing the rhythm section is David McCullar on bass, a serious 12-year-old whose bass almost dwarfs him. He plays with his fingers, not a pick, and he keeps a close eye on novice musician Ross Huffman, who really shines when he screams into the mike. Tessa Justman hits the drums with precision, brown braids flrying, managing to make it look as natural as breathing, all the while exchanging goofy smiles with McElyea.

Welcome to Room 6. If you're not wearing shorts 12 sizes too big and suede skater's shoes, if you've never heard of the impossibles and if you don't consider Skittles one of the four food groups, you may as well leave now.

'I heard it in my head'

Rock'n'roll is a unique art form. It is learned in bedrooms and garages by listening and copying. Name your favorite rock stars, then guess whether they took lessons to learn their chops. The Beatles? Rolling Stones? Elvis? Probably not. Rock'n'roll is like folk art; it can be done by anyone, no formal training is required.

That is what drives thousands of teen-agers to music stores each year, parents in tow, for that Peavey bass, Fender guitar or, in the case of very nice parents, that Pearl drum set. It is the same idea that drives the Natural Ear Music Camp.

Presiding over the action with good humor is the tanned, down-home Michele Murphy (a local singer), who strides from room to room, praising and occasionally making suggestions (like nixing one group's choice of Nirvana's "Lithium" as "too depressing").

This started five years ago when Murphy's 12-year-old son picked up a guitar and began playing leads. "I heard it in my head," he explained. Murphy took the idea and ran with it, typing up fliers and passing them out to fellow musicians and friends. The first camp session took place at a private home, with about six kids.

Now, kids are grouped according to age and ability. They learn songs during the first week, then spend the next two practicing, practicing, practicing for the final goal - the Big Gig at a local club.

A hip den mother

The spirit of Kurt Cobain drifts through these halls, bouncing between the Nirvana T-shirts, stickers of his likeness plastered on guitars, covers of his songs wafting everywhere. Whenever there's a lull in practice, Triplett or McElyea break out letter perfect versions of Cobain's guitar parts.

At times it feels like high school, with rivalries between practice rooms, bigger kids gently picking on littler ones, and tricks pulled when the teacher leaves the room.

But it's hard to be too rebellious when your teacher is so cool she teaches you all the words, even the dirty ones, to Babes in Toyland's "Sweet 69" and NOFX's "The Brew."

De Lewellen, the adult presence in Room 6, used to sing in a Raoul's-era punk band called D-Day.

She and the kids are a perfect match. She has given them the freedom to choose whatever they want to play and manages to inspire teamwork. She's the kind of teacher who is so good it almost looks like she's not doing anything. Typical band arguments like what songs to play and in what order to practice them are defused by Lewellen, like an understanding and hip den mother. Every band needs one.

It's pretty easy to pick out the instructors at the camp. They are the tall people in the crowd. They are the ones with basketballs and pizza boxes in hand, the ones patiently beating out the time to "Wild Thing" or singing the correct pitch to "Purple Haze." And they might be a little bleary-eyed from last night's gig, since they are musicians themselves.

No ego clashes

In Room 6, most are skilled musicians who seem generally unimpressed by their abilities.

Once the initial thrill of figuring out all the parts to a favorite song wears off, four hours a day of playing the same few songs can make a kid a bit antsy. But this is a camp that mimics band life - albeit band life without the 40-hours-a-week day job, costly rehearsal space and massive (grown-up) ego clashes.

Huffman, who has the unenviable position of being the least experienced musician in the room, plays cowbell on most of the songs, sings on a few, or just sits and watches. But when it comes time to sing, all inhibitions are left behind, all aggressions unleashed - "I wanna use you, and abuse you" - in a red-faced growl that belies his age.

McElyea hams it up. The guitar comes easily to her, and she's got leftover energy to burn. She goes through the entire catalog of rock star poses, adds unamplified horror movie screams and tries to stand on top of her practice amp, toppling it.

Justman plays the drums and sings with equal amounts of concentration and caution. She can hit and sing notes just like she hears them on a CD.

Symington doesn't say much, but his drumming speaks for itself. When asked why he started drumming four years ago, he shrugs, "I needed something to do."

McElyea is equally blase about her skills. "There was a guitar in the house," she says, sipping a Coke. She learned by playing along with Nirvana's "Unplugged." Now she practices all the time, even bringing her guitar to school. "My dad is really into it, he's like, 'You have to go to music school! Take lessons!'"

"I'm like, whatever," she shrugs.

Different musical tastes

Her eyes light up when she thinks of the future, beyond homeroom and curfews. She sees herself perhaps "living in a van," playing music and using any extra income to buy "pedals. I want to line my room with pedals." Then she runs around, stepping on these pretend pedals of the future with glee.

During a break, the conversation turns from a pancake-flipping invention seen on television to Buddhism, from how weird old "Simpsons" episodes look to how kids in high school have questionable musical tastes.

When asked if they will keep in touch after camp, or keep playing as a band, everyone looks doubtful.

They have different tastes in music, they say. Other complaints are shouted out: "There's no one at my school who wants to." "I tried but my friends flaked out on me." Another obstacle that prevents them from continuing as a band is the feeling they may not be able to write original songs.

Their world is divided by who goes to what school, and since this group stretches from Westridge to Austin High to St. Stephens, the band in Room 6 will self-destruct after its first concert.

But for now there's work to be done, parts to be tightened, backing vocals to be added, a name to be created. They think about calling themselves "Teenage Rebellion" but end up naming themselves after their room.

Triplett and McElyea hang around for a bit during the break time, which is usually spent listening to CDs and eating Doritos. But they grow impatient and head out the door.

"Where are you going?" someone asks. "We're going to play," they shout behind them, heading to another group's rehearsal room, to listen and to learn.